Wet Job
by whoredini
Summary: Doctor Strange needs a helping hand. Unfortunately, his helping hand is an undercover operative tasked with killing him should he prove dangerous. (Stephen Strange/Everett Ross. Light D/s. Light plot, mostly porn.)


Doctor Stephen Strange, neurosurgeon extraordinaire and now master of the mystical arts, glanced furtively up and down the block.

It was after eleven. A car cruised past, its progress challenged by a dog's yipping. A few lights still burned in some of the windows of the buildings crowding the street, but there were no other pedestrians out. Dark doorways marched by Strange as he headed for the three storey red brick that sat, squat, between two larger modern buildings.

The antique store on the ground floor was locked up for the night, its shades drawn. The stairway to the upper floors was down a narrow alleyway, rusted steps climbing to two different landings. A tidy "2A" had been spray painted on the wall next to the first door.

Stalling, Strange pulled his phone out and checked the listing again, as if he needed to and couldn't picture it in his mind, thank you Eidetic memory! It read the same as before: _Gay d_ _addy_ _d_ _om, discreet, clean. Brooklyn Terrace 2A,_ _Williamsburg_. Strange wanted to turn back, but as if to underscore his desperate situation his already trembling hand chose that moment to twitch. He nearly dropped his phone.

Don't be a coward, he told himself, stowing his phone back in his pocket. He could feel the bulge of cold hard cash next to it, enough, he was fairly certain, to cover any... _expenses_ he incurred.

Clearing his throat, he lifted his fist to the door and knocked three times.

At first, there was no response. Strange resisted the urge to triple check the escort's ad, thinking that he'd give it a few minutes. If nothing happened... Well, he'd take it as a sign from the multiverse that he should pursue abstinence. And then prayed fervently that someone would answer the damn door.

There was a scuffle, a creak, and the door inched open, revealing a sliver of face and a suspicious eye.

Strange silently swore that he'd do something nice for someone to balance out his karma.

"Can I help you?" the man asked. About the only thing Strange could tell was that he was short and belligerent and thank you multiverse.

"Hello, yes," he said, in his most charming voice. He paired it with his most charming smile. It was rakish, even if he said so himself. "I'm here about the ad."

The short man failed to be charmed. "What ad?" he wanted to know, with another hard glint of eye.

Strange's confidence faltered somewhat. He reminded himself that he could literally teleport himself out of the situation if it got too awkward. He couldn't, however, jerk off with magic.

"The ad on Craigslist," he told the inhabitant of 2A. "For the—you know..."

He intimated sex with his eyebrows.

"What ad?" the short man repeated, a stubborn set to the bit of his mouth that Strange could see.

"Oh for _heaven's sake_ ," Strange snapped, "the ad for the gay daddy dom, discreet, clean, Brooklyn Terrace-"

"Why didn't you just say so?" the man said, and the door closed. There was rattling before the door opened again.

"Come on in," said 2A, standing aside so Strange could pass.

The man really was short. He couldn't have been much more than five six in his socks, but he had a sturdy build and a calm confidence about him. He was probably in his early forties, greying, with penetrating blue eyes. He was dressed casually: t-shirt, jeans, socked feet.

"What was that about?" Strange wanted to know, stepping into the apartment alertly.

"I wanted to see if you'd admit it," the man said. He shut and locked the door, but left the key in the lock, Strange noted. He flicked on a lamp, leading Strange down a narrow entryway into a comfortable sitting room. "I don't have the time or energy to nurse twinks through their gay denial."

The sitting room was cosy: wooden floors, squishy furniture, a packed bookcase instead of a television.

"It's bisexual," Strange said, "and no need, I'm not in denial about my sexuality."

The man had crossed his arms. They stared at each other until he apparently came to a decision.

"I guess not. Well, I don't usually work this late, but you're just about coming apart at the seams. So what'll it be?"

Strange's confidence faltered again. Was it really that obvious? No wonder Wong had been snickering so much lately.

"Is it your first time doing...this kind of thing?" the man asked, picking up on Strange's hesitation.

"Yes." Strange kept his chin up. "I don't have...time for relationships and-"

"That's all bullshit," the short man said, "but honestly guy, I don't care. You don't need to justify yourself to me."

Strange cleared his throat again and nodded. Teleportation, he reminded himself, at the same instant his dick reminded him that they had a deal and he couldn't back out now, he _couldn't_.

Blue Eyes sighed. Then he stuck out his hand and said, "My name's Everett."

Strange hesitated, then grasped it as firmly as he could and returned, "Stephen." He wondered as he said it if Everett had even really given his real-

"Yeah, it's my real name, and I think Stephen is your real name too. Nice to meet you." They shook.

"So how does this work?" Strange asked, trying for professional but suspecting he merely sounded breathless.

"It's fifty bucks an hour. You pay in advance. You put the money on that lovely antique teak coffee table over there. I lead you to a room. I help you out. You leave afterwards. Oh, and no refunds."

"What about an exchange policy?" Strange quipped before he quite realised what he was implying.

"And no discounts for smartassery," Everett added, amused, but ignored his question (and his blush).

"Right," Strange said, "shall I...?" He put down a hundred dollar bill, weighing it down with a decorative ceramic apple. Turning back to face Everett, he realised he was rubbing his hands together in anticipation and stopped, feeling foolish.

Everett regarded him dispassionately, then turned on his heel. "Come along," he said, over his shoulder.

He led him down a short hallway into a small, but not cramped, room, flicking on a bedside lamp. An old-fashioned metal frame bed took up most of the space. It was in pristine condition and made up in white and pale green, a scatter of pillows at its head. Two bedside tables stood next to it on either side. There was a dresser against the other wall, a small washbasin sitting on top of it, and a chest at the foot of the bed.

Strange had wondered what dive he'd possibly end up in – mental images of bare mattresses on dirty floors had swum up in his mind's eye – but he was pretty sure he wouldn't have imagined _this_. This was the kind of room you booked on a holiday Upstate, not had your brains banged out in.

Or maybe, he thought, he'd just been vacationing the wrong way.

"Problem?" Everett asked him, curiosity colouring his otherwise neutral tone.

"It's, um." He decided on honesty. It was a recent transition for him. "Not a needle-strewn back alley."

"I try," Everett said dryly. "You can undress. There are hangers behind the door for your clothes. When you're done you can pick toys from the chest, or let me pick them for you."

Strange's mouth dried at this. "I-"

"Take as long as you need. I'll be right back."

Everett left the room, taking the washbasin with him. He left the door open a sliver behind him. Strange listened to his footsteps. He didn't go far, probably just to the bathroom down the hall.

Licking his lips, Strange considered the room, then the chest. It looked perfectly innocuous, not at all like it was chock a block with sex toys.

Going over to it, he popped its lid open. On a bed of spare clean white linen lay an assortment of toys, most of them in neutral colours. Butt plugs in a few sizes. Anal beads. Things that vibrated. A ball gag. A brown leather collar with a matching leash. Handcuffs. Silk scarves that were soft and slinky to the touch. Earmuffs. There were some things Strange didn't know the name of, but Everett's collection was mercifully short on spikes and black thongs.

Strange considered. What _did_ he want? To get off. That was literally all. There was a reason even the thought of bare dirty mattresses hadn't put him off following up on a Craigslist ad, and that reason was sexual frustration.

But how?

He decided on a few silk scarves, figuring the wire-frame bed had been selected for the purpose of restraint without having to be gauche about it. He laid these on top of the chest and started to undress. First his shoes and socks, then his jacket, then the shirt. He hung these up behind the door before he started on his belt. But to his immense frustration, the belt wouldn't budge.

Strange felt a shiver of humiliation. His hands didn't hurt as much as they had only a few months before, and he'd regained enough control to be independent. He maintained an artful goatee after all. But his hands still acted up sometimes, like when it was cold...or he was nervous. Strange exhaled and flexed his fingers, but they wouldn't relax.

It was only when the floorboard creaked behind him that Strange realised Everett had returned. He was dressed in only a tiny pair of navy boxers. His chest was hairless and his torso and thighs lightly muscled. He had that same curious look in his eyes like Strange was turning out to be more intriguing than he'd suspected.

"What's wrong?" Everett asked, taking a few more steps into the room.

"It's nothing," Strange said shortly, turning his back on him again. "It's just this belt, it doesn't want to-"

"Here," Everett said, moving closer.

"No!" Strange snapped. "I can do it myself!"

"Stephen," Everett warned him, placing a hand on the small of his back. Lightly, just resting his fingertips against the curve of Strange's spine. Strange felt the tiny hairs on his body hair prickle to attention – along with his cock, honestly – and a shiver followed.

Swallowing, Strange released his belt, hands dangling uselessly at his sides. He felt warm, too full for his skin. Teleportation, he reminded himself. But then Everett stepped around him, moving his hand to hold Strange's hip. Everett's grip was light but it made him feel strangely _anchored_.

"Sorry, I..." He shook his head.

"You were injured," Everett surmised. He released Strange's hip and picked up his hands by the wrists. He angled them slightly as he looked at them but otherwise didn't touch them.

"Car accident," Strange heard himself say. "I don't usually have this much trouble, I..."

"This level of injury... You can't touch yourself, can you?" Everett surmised, gaze still on Strange's hands.

"Not without it being painful," he admitted.

"I understand," Everett said, looking at Strange now. "I'll be mindful of them, you don't have to worry."

And then he curtly unbuckled Strange's belt, unbuttoned his pants for him and stepped back so Strange could shimmy free of them.

Strange felt a little self-conscious as Everett took him in. He was in good shape, but pale and grizzled and ungroomed. He picked up his trousers and folded them lopsidedly on the chest, goose-pimpling in his black briefs.

"You know the orange and red light system?" Everett prompted him, shucking some of the pillows from the bed and pulling the covers neatly back, revealing clean white linen of the kind in the chest.

"I _have_ read a magazine or two," Strange responded.

Everett was unfazed by his sarcasm. "I'll honour that system, but I expect you to do the same. If you feel at all uncomfortable, we stop. If I feel at all uncomfortable, we stop. Got it?"

"Yes."

"Good. Can you lie on your front?"

Everett arranged him face-down on the bed, giving him a pillow to prop his head on. Strange was semi-erect in his briefs, his mind flashing to the plugs he'd seen in the chest. That was the one advantage of this position, after all. He spread his knees a little.

"I see you picked restraints but is that all you want?" Everett asked him. He rummaged something from one of the bedside table's drawers. When he turned to Strange, Strange could see it was a bottle, but the label was obscured.

"This position is suggestive," Strange said dryly, but only to cover up the fact that he couldn't quite get "fuck me hard" out.

Everett smiled at him. It made him look boyish. "How about this: I'll give you what I think you need, rather than what _you_ think you want. Deal?"

Strange licked his lips. His belly felt liquid. "That's...acceptable," he decided.

"I guess we'll see," Everett said, smiling again. He disappeared from Strange's view, but then he was on the bed and straddling Strange's butt.

It wasn't...quite comfortable. Everett was heavier than he looked. And whether by accident or design, his weight pinned down Strange's hips, aborting the furtive rubbing he'd been indulging in.

"I'm squirting some oil on your back," Everett told him, and a second later an oodle of oil spilled between Strange's shoulder blades and trickled down to the small of his back. Everett waited until it pooled there before he began redistributing it in firm motions, spreading it over Strange's entire back. Strange couldn't quite identify the scent: floral, but light, not overwhelming.

"Is this what you think I need?" Strange couldn't help but ask when Everett leant away to deposit the bottle on the bedside table. "A massage?"

"Have you got something against massages?" Everett asked, smoothing his hands over Strange's shoulder blades, leaning some of his weight into the motion. It felt good, but like Everett's weight, it wasn't exactly comfortable.

"I don't mind massages," Strange said, "when they're in the right area. In fact-"

But what in fact Strange never did say, because Everett massaged his complaint right out of him, and Strange let it go in a whoosh of air. Everett was doing something firm and circular to Strange's shoulders and neck, and Strange felt like he'd been left on a Bunsen burner to return to liquid form.

"Hmm?" Everett wanted to know.

"Never mind," Strange said, voice muffled as he slumped into his pillow.

Everett worked the same motions down the rest of Strange's back. "You're one big knot of tension," he told Strange as he worked, "and not just sexual. If we do this right, you get rid of all that tension. Doesn't that sound good?"

"You're wiser than I am," Strange sighed.

"Clearly," Everett agreed.

The massage continued for a while, until the relaxation began pooling into its own need, throbbing low down in Strange's belly. Everett's weight was merciless against his pelvis, and he allowed Strange little room to shift, pinning him down whenever Strange tried to find friction.

And then his weight vanished and the bed shifted.

Strange opened his mouth to complain, but before he could Everett had slid Strange's black briefs off and over his butt, down his thighs and off his feet. Strange craned around in time to see him fold them next to his trousers on the wooden chest at the end of the bed.

"Lie back down," Everett told him quietly.

Swallowing, Strange complied, and a moment later Everett straddled the back of his thighs, grabbing the bottle of oil before he settled. Another oodle of oil pooled at the dip of Strange's lower back. He shivered. He felt...vulnerable, with his butt naked, but clearly his cock was loving this little trust exercise: it burned against his belly.

"Okay?" Everett checked, tone intent.

Strange nodded into his pillow, hugging it closer.

Everett dispersed the oil the same way he had before, working it over the generous globes of Strange's ass and lightly furred upper thighs in firm motions. Strange could feel the oil tickling as it trickled down his crack, following the line down to his hole. Goose pimples erupted all over his skin, even along his scalp.

How embarrassing would it be if he came just from a massage? Strange thought, a bit wildly.

As if sensing this, Everett's hands suddenly followed the trickle of oil. Spreading Strange's ass cheeks, he massaged it over Strange's whorl in gentle, languid motions. Strange gasped, squirming, trying to get more friction, more _anything_ than that light, maddening touch-

The slap on his ass was short and sharp. Strange yelped, more out of shock than pain.

"Not yet," Everett told him, leaning forward to whisper this in Strange's ear. His breath so close to Strange's sweaty temple felt like a touch in itself. "Trust me, okay?"

Everett waited until Strange gave a shaky assent before he continued the massage, fingers dexterous over Strange's asshole, massaging around it a few moments before hunting farther down, finding a spot just behind Strange's balls, making him moan, before sliding back up. The circuit repeated a few times, and Strange was breathless and desperate when Everett finally let up.

"I think we're ready," he told him.

Strange merely snorted, practically quivering.

"C'mon," Everett told him, "sit up."

It took Strange two tries to figure out how to coordinate his limbs so he could shift his body around, and then he could only push himself into a sitting position with Everett's help. He felt loose and limber and slightly on fire. As soon as he turned over his cock sprang free, thick and full and heavy. Everett made an appreciative sound when he saw it, but didn't otherwise attempt to touch it.

Everett slid off the bed and retrieved one of the silk scarves Strange had picked out. To be honest, Strange had forgotten about the scarves, and the sight of Everett running his fingers through the material moved the situation along from "desperate" to "critical".

The scarf Everett picked was black and long; he wound it around his hand before he climbed back onto the bed, sliding in behind Strange. He pulled Strange so that the taller man sat between his legs, but kept him upright. Strange's mouth dried when he felt the unmistakable burn and hardness of Everett's answering erection where it rubbed against the small of his back through Everett's underwear.

"If this is too uncomfortable, tell me," Everett said. He drew Strange's arms back, tying a firm – but not tight – knot around Strange's left wrist. But instead of copying the action on the other wrist, or tying them together, Everett drew Strange's arms back farther, around his hips. Everett looped the scarf around his own back and only then did he tie a knot around Strange's right wrist.

As Everett tightened and adjusted the knot, Strange was forced back against Everett's chest, his arms straining somewhat but his hands comfortable. As he eased back his cock lifted, rising like an angry exclamation mark between his legs.

"How does that feel?" Everett wanted to know, pulling Strange closer by the hips.

" _Thank you multiverse, thank you,"_ Strange said fervently.

"What?" Everett wanted to know, bemused.

"It feels good," Strange got out, and then, "Don't stop, for the love of-"

The first touch of Everett's hand on Strange's cock nearly did him in, which was probably why Everett only touched lightly, questing through his pubic hair, gently rubbing his furry balls, hunting until he found the same spot he'd been massaging earlier. He knocked Strange's legs open wider with his own and leaned back in the same motion. Strange whimpered and relaxed into his embrace, mindful of the fact that he must look completely wanton spread out like this, and not giving a sideways shit about it.

Everett traced a line of fingertips up the underside of Strange's cock in the same instant he suckled Strange's earlobe into his mouth; closed his hand around Strange's girth the same moment he bit down on the earlobe's fleshiest part. Strange very nearly came that instant, a fact Everett perhaps sensed, because he began jerking him off in earnest, firm, patient strokes, spreading a mixture of Strange's precum and leftover massage oil over Strange's dick to facilitate the process.

Strange fucked into Everett's hand with every stroke he got, helpless to sensation, and this time Everett let him move, let him thrust up into his slick fist. Strange's back and thighs burned, but he was so close, so near, after all this time-

The sight of his cock in Everett's fist, the lewdness of his spread thighs and his fluttering asshole and his tight balls, Everett's warm, solid body behind his, holding him, helping him-

Strange was pretty sure he blacked out a second. He came and came and came, striping his torso in cum. His back arched as a wave of absolute bliss washed over him. His toes curled. He was distantly aware that he was moaning but didn't quite care.

Everett held on to him tightly, milking the last of his orgasm from him. He'd sagged onto him completely but Everett didn't seem to mind; he stroked him through the aftershocks, mumbling something conciliatory in his neck. Strange felt him push the hair back from his forehead and then kiss him, once, on the shoulder.

"I can get out of these knots," Strange said breathlessly, his eyes closed. He'd wanted to say it earlier but had been distracted by impending orgasm.

"You could have," Everett agreed, "but that wasn't the point."

"What was the point?" Strange felt himself frowning. He was struggling for coherence.

"That you wouldn't want to. Trust," Everett emphasised.

"I'm not so good with trust," Strange admitted.

Everett chuckled. "You did fine a moment ago."

He started undoing the bonds, slipping the scarf free before carefully returning Strange's arms to his own use. Still behind him, Everett massaged Strange's shoulders, upper arms, lower arms, wrists.

"I didn't hurt you?" he wanted to know.

Strange flexed his hands, but they hurt no more than usual. "I'm fine," he said.

"Good," said Everett with another chuckle – and slipped off the bed.

"Where are you going?" Strange sat up with some difficulty. But Everett – and his still straining erection – had left the room. He returned a moment later with the basin that had been on the dresser. Water sloshed inside, and a wash cloth had been draped over the edge. Everett taken the time to put on his jeans again.

"Unless you want to put your clothes on over that?" Everett asked, pausing in the act of wetting the wash cloth, having spotted Strange's facial expression. He'd put the basin on the lid of the chest – carefully away from Strange's underwear and trousers.

"Yes—No-What I _mean_ ," Strange said, irritated with himself, "what about... _you_?"

He intimated sex with his eyebrows again, but clearly they were not up to the job tonight.

"It's your decision, Stephen, but I think the semen might ruin your lovely shirt," Everett said, very seriously.

"That's not what I meant and you know it!"

Everett sighed, rinsing out the excess water from the wash cloth. "I don't... _get off_ with clients, Stephen. It's nothing personal, as you clearly felt. You're very attractive and I enjoyed...helping you."

Strange's mouth felt dry. "But you don't want me to..."

"No." Everett gave him half a smile. "Let's get you cleaned up, shall we?"

But when he approached Strange with the wash cloth, Strange snatched it from him and cleaned himself, probably doing a more clumsy job than Everett would have done. Strange's behaviour was silly and defensive; Everett said it wasn't personal and this was only a hookup anyway, right? For heaven's sake, he was paying the man! So that Strange felt rejected was indefensible and arrogant and foolish.

He returned the wash cloth to Everett, feeling sheepish. The afterglow had worn off rather abruptly, but that was one hundred percent his own fault. "I—sorry. No. Yes. I mean thank you. For the..."

"Orgasm?" Everett asked with quirked eyebrow.

"The massage," Strange returned, with his own half smile.

Everett gave him a wolfish grin. But his tone sounded sincere when he said, "It was my pleasure."

Everett left the room when Strange started dressing. Strange moved slowly, his muscles still loosened, the weight in his pelvis gone for the first time in months. He got his belt settled in one try, then pulled on his jacket. He gave the room a once-over before he left it. Maybe he _should_ go on a vacation, he thought.

Everett was waiting for him in the living room. He'd pulled on his t-shirt. When he glanced up at Strange's entry, the bland expression was back. Strange didn't like it, but then Everett hadn't been paid to like him.

They didn't say much to each other. Everett walked him to the door. They exchanged goodbyes and then Strange was descending the rusting stairway, his shoes sounding loud on the steel steps. The lights that had been burning in the other buildings down the street when he got there were off. Glancing up at the first windows above the antique shop, Strange saw Everett's light winking off too.

Night had finally descended on New York.

Strange walked around the corner to find an alleyway to teleport home.

* * *

Everett Ross waited until Stephen Strange had rounded the corner before he stepped back from the window. His phone screen was bright in the gloom, but the light dimmed when the call connected.

"I'm in with Strange," he said.


End file.
